Three Wishes, Christmas Present
by MLaw
Summary: A separate but related fic to Three Wishes Christmas Past. Part of the PicFic Tuesday December challenge on section7mfu on Live Journal. The cover photo is the prompt for this fic.


**Christmas Present**

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin trudged along the snow covered streets of Paris, they'd wandered out to just get some fresh air and had walked about a kilometer or so from the Eiffel tower.

Solo was dressed comfortably in a lined trench coat, with a dashing fedora covering his head, while his partner looked ever the Slav, wearing a short black woolen coat, a dark scarf wound around his neck and the crowning glory covering his blond hair, a black Russian style cap, minus the red star of course.

Napoleon's gloved hands were animated as he spoke, while Illya's clenched fists were firmly entrenched in his pockets. The Russian was in one of his stubborn moods and his partner was trying to change that.

"Come on Illya, it's Christmas Eve in Paris and we have no assignment."

The Russian said nothing, but stopped, staring at a small shop window display of pocket watches hanging there, glistening in the reflected light of a street lamp.

"It is merely December 24th to me and nothing more, " he finally answered, still not taking his eyes off the watches. "And if I celebrated Christmas, which I do not, it would not be until January 7th as you have forgotten that Christmas falls on that date in the Orthodox religion of Russia."

Napoleon couldn't help but notice his partner's fascination with the window display.

"You want a pocket watch for Christmas...I'll buy you one?" Solo offered, noting a momentary change in demeanor as his friend as he stared at the watches.

"No I do not," Illya answered tersely. "Thank you," he softened his tone of voice, realizing he was being rude. "They...they remind me of something that is all."

"And that is?" Napoleon asked, though he really didn't expect an answer.

Illya surprisingly opened up, speaking of the last Christmas he celebrated with his family and of his grandfather's pocket watch. But it was when he spoke of his mother's note...her gift of love, that was when began to choke up. Napoleon watched as the Russian shook off his emotions, hardening himself again. "The Nazis confiscated the watch with my mothers note hidden inside and I never saw it again."

Napoleon was caught off guard at Illya's unexpected candor, as he rarely spoke of personal things. He refrained from using the word 'sorry,' knowing it would upset him even more. The man was almost obsessive about never being pitied, though what he was concerned being pitied over, Napoleon had no idea. Illya closed up like a clam when he tried to probe.

Instead Solo decided to change the topic. "I'd say let's go find some willing mademoiselles tonight, but I suppose it being Christmas Eve, would make that idea a little sacrilegious...at least to me."

The toll of a nearby bell interrupted his thoughts when he realized they were standing in front of a church, Église St-Leon. It was brightly lit, with the voices of a childrens choir drifting out from within its walls.

He recognized the carole instantly...

"_Il est ne, le divin Enfant, Jouez hautbois, resonnez, musettes;_

_Il est ne, le divin Enfant; Chantons tous son avenement..."_

It filled the air, echoing everywhere, as the falling snow muffled the sounds of the city, leaving only their innocent voices singing out clearly into the night air.

A thought suddenly came to the American, taking a chance with it,

"I'm going to do something I haven't done in a long time, and that's go to Christmas Eve mass. I know your holiday isn't until January, but why don't you come along with me?"

If there were ever a moment Napoleon saw his partner taken back, it was then.

"No, no," Illya stuttered, "I cannot...will not do that. I do not believe in God."

"But you did once," Napoleon smiled.

"That was a long time ago," Illya mumbled. In truth it was more that he was angry with God for having taken his mother and twin brothers so brutally at the hands of the Nazis, and then, one by one, the rest of his family. He would not let himself believe in a God who would do that, and leave him the sole survivor.

He shook his head, backing away from his partner. "It is all right, you go. I will find something else to do. See you later back at the hotel my friend."

Illya didn't wait for an answer as he turned, heading off into the snowy evening.

Napoleon, knowing it was best not to go after him, watched as he walked beneath the street lamps until he was gone from view. He shook his head, feeling his action had only worsened his friends mood.

Napoleon turned to the church, walking up the steps slowly, but turning again to see if he could spot Illya. There was no sign of him, and he wondered where the Russian would go to escape the holiday.

Illya wandered the streets, as he tried to clear his head of his melancholia. He'd walked for nearly three quarters of an hour when he heard voices, singing songs in Russian.

These he surmised were expatriates living in France, and not the ones he spied on at University when he was assigned here as an agent of GRU. Those people would never be gathered in public, such as these were. No doubt there was someone from KGB nearby, lurking in the shadows to see what they were up to, but to Illya that was neither here nor there at the moment.

The voices were coming from inside a restaurant, and a few people standing outside the door smoking cigarettes smiled, inviting him in.

"_Zakhodite vnutrʹ tovarishch, vse oni rady. Nu yest napitok na etu snezhnuyu nochʹ_Come inside comrade, all are welcome here. Come, eat drink on this snowy night. We may be in Paris but inside here, it is Russia!"_

He looked at a street sign, seeing he was on _Rue Daru_, right in the middle of one of the many Russian communities in Paris.

Realizing he was cold, he decided to take them up on their offer. What better way to soothe a Russian soul, than to be with other Russian souls drinking vodka and eating _zakuski._

Illya felt rather selfish as he sipped his first shot of vodka and popped a cracker with caviar into his mouth. He should not have left his partner the way he did as Napoleon's attempts to make one stubborn Russian feel better were done with good intentions.

He turned, leaning on the bar as someone stuck up a lively tune on a balalaika and before he knew it he was drawn into the _Kazachok,_ a Russian diminutive of the name Cossack, for a dance done with a fast tempo in which a squatting dancer kicks out each leg alternately to the front.

It had been a long time since he'd done the dance, and his leg muscles strained as he took the steps, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Another man jumped to the middle of the floor, the next one taking his turn and allowing Illya to retreat to the safety of the bar again. His enjoyment was fleeting, and after a few more vodkas, he left, heading back to the hotel; the melancholia creeping back. There were too many things tonight that reminded him of home, his real home with his family, the holy day and the wonderful celebrations.

The people in the bar were _his_ people, yet he felt like an interloper...on the outside looking in and feeling so disconnected from things that should have made him happy.

He would satisfy himself with the thought that a good nights sleep would banish the pain, and his thoughts and mood would be better when he woke up. At least he hoped they would...

.

Napoleon Solo remained in the church after mass had concluded, listening to the choir serenading the parishioners as they left . He knelt in in front of a statue of the Christ, blessing himself with the sign of the cross, and lit a candle as he prayed for Illya, wishing he could take away his partner's pain and asked for God's help.

.

* ref "Beginnings"


End file.
